How I make my coffee (badly, happily)

No scale, no timer, no opinions about water temperature. I want to say this up front because there is a whole world of coffee people who will tell you I'm doing it wrong, and they are probably correct, and I have made my peace with that.

Here is the actual process: I fill the kettle more than I need and less than the last time. I scoop grounds with the same spoon I've used for six years, a slightly bent teaspoon that used to belong to a set and now belongs to nothing but this one job. I don't measure. I've made coffee in this kitchen often enough that my hands seem to know before I do.

The mug matters more than the method — a slightly chipped one, the chip small enough that it's never once cut my lip, worn smooth at the edge from years of the same grip. I drink it black, standing at the counter for the first few sips before I let myself sit down, which is its own small ritual I couldn't explain if you asked me to.

Is it good coffee, by any real standard? I genuinely don't know. It's mine, made the same slightly wrong way every morning, and some mornings that matters more than the standard.